


before the storm

by irinushka



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, gaby is very done, illya is...illya, napoleon "bad at feelings" solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irinushka/pseuds/irinushka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon would pay any price to preserve the quiet little moments he and Illya have, even if the cost of that is a weight in his chest presses harder with each breath. Gaby thinks he's an idiot. Illya is (thankfully) oblivious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	before the storm

 

Napoleon likes the mornings when they can wake up slow. They're so few and far between, so precious, that he treasures them far more than anything he's ever stolen.

 

Illya is still sleeping. They're not pressed together like they were when they fell asleep, spooned up close with Illya's chest warm against his back, but it's a near thing. Their legs are tangled together and Illya's arm is slung heavy over his waist.

 

He puts out heat like a furnace, skin burning hot. Napoleon basks. It's winter, and he'll take all the warmth he wants. Illya has compared him to a cat more than once in the past. Outside the weather foul. He can hear rain lashing against the window. It's having an altogether soporific effect on him, even though he knows he should be getting up soon.

 

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Illya twitches in his sleep. _Don't wake up yet,_ Napoleon thinks. It isn't that they're not tactile on waking – god knows, they touch casually enough times over the day – but more that Illya's guard goes up. They're sleeping together, sure, but they don't talk about it, even though Gaby keeps threatening to smack their heads together unless they do. She probably will, too.

 

It's just...

 

There's rarely a chance. This week is the only time they've had off properly in months. He doesn't want to confess the depth of his feelings (and god knows, they're deep enough to drown him, should he allow it) when they're on a mission because it could compromise things. Even if he suddenly blurted it all out when they're doing research and not actively running for their lives it'd be a huge distraction. Then something would fuck up. Then Waverly would step in. Then he'd be found out.

 

He shudders just to think about it. It's bad enough that Gaby gives him knowing looks _constantly_ between her threats and eye-rolls. He's lucky Illya has the emotional perception of a brick, because he doesn't think he's being especially good at hiding it, try as he might. He always wants to kiss Illya's cheek when he gives a (rare) smile, or inch that bit closer when they sit side by side, or hold him too tight for too long if they have a particularly close shave with something.

 

And that just wouldn't do.

 

No, Illya is only easy with his affection when exhausted or if he nearly dies. Neither of those are things Napoleon wants to happen often, and he doesn't want to make him uncomfortable by forcing his hand when it comes to tenderness, so he's at something of a dead end. He'll take what he can get for as long as he can until he's either found out, or Illya tires of him. That's a plan, right?

 

He suddenly feels a little cold, despite his layers of blankets and giant companion. The longer he thinks about it, the more he ties himself in knots.

 

Lightning flashes, and Napoleon sighs.

 

Maybe he'll be the one to move on. Maybe years down the line he'll sit with Illya in a quiet moment, a scotch in hand, getting thoroughly destroyed at chess, and they'll laugh about this together. _Hey Illya, remember when I loved you? Can you imagine! Ridiculous!_ It doesn't fit right, though. In his head, the image of it is cloudy. When he thinks of kissing or confessing to Illya the picture is sharp as glass. If he thinks hard enough about it he'd surely cut himself.

 

He lays his own hand over Illya's and laces their fingers together glumly. Why can't he just be happy with what he has? Being so insatiable has nearly gotten him killed in the past, and he obviously hasn't learnt.

 

He glances at the clock. He's another 40 minutes of this until the alarm goes off.

 

 _Don't go away_ he thinks. _Need you._

 

Illya shifts again and he snaps his eyes shut _. Not yet, not yet, not yet._

 

There's a tense few moments where the only sound is the rain and thunder, then Illya's breathing settles back to normal.

 

Napoleon lets out the breath he'd been holding. _Phew._ He's come a decision. He's not going to say a word. He'd do anything not to fuck up little fragments of softness like this, and if the price of that is a weight in his chest, well.

 

He'll live.

 

For now, this is enough.

 

He turns his head to lay the softest of kisses on Illya's shoulder, and closes his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for writing this trope riddled trash, but I don't care. I love these three so much.


End file.
